I’ll Drive!
Flashback a few years, when I still lived at home.
My younger sister, Tracy, wanted to go to a party but didn’t yet have her license.
“I’ll drive!” I volunteered. I was rarely invited to parties, unless you count the ones where I invited myself – like this one.
My mom looked at my sister, who shrugged. “That’s fine,” Tracy said.
“Okay,” my mom said. “But be careful! And be home by midnight.”
This party happened long before anyone knew what I was.
“Okay!” I said, and my sister and I headed out the door.
The party was maybe a mile away, near our high school. (I frequently walked to our high school when I missed the bus.) And while I didn’t know many of my sister’s friends, I was excited to be going to a party – any party – instead of staying home.
And man, did I party. I drank whatever spiked punch they offered, as many cups as I could drink, before midnight. I don’t remember talking to anyone or doing anything. I just remember drinking. A lot.
At 11:55, Tracy urged for the tenth time, “We’ve got to go! We have to be home in five minutes!” I chugged what was left of my drink and hopped in the driver’s seat. Tracy got into the passenger seat and we pulled out of the driveway at Tracy’s friend’s house for our one-mile drive home.
As we were driving, Tracy said, in a very high voice, “You hit a telephone pole!” She sounded panicked.
“I did not hit a pole!” I said. I was not afraid.
“You did!” she insisted. “You hit a pole and you need to pull over!”
“I did not hit anything!” I said. “We’re fine!”
“You did!” she said again, then got quiet. “You could have killed me.”
Accidentally, I turned the wheel wildly as I turned my head to look at her. I righted it before we were hit by an oncoming vehicle coming around a bend and said, “I could not have killed you.”
“You need to pull over,” she said again.
“We’re almost home!” I replied. “I do not need to pull over!”
She stayed quiet for the rest of the trip.
We arrived at home perfectly healthy and safe.
I looked at the car in the driveway, where she said I hit a pole. “See?” I said. “There’s nothing there!” I had no idea what Tracy was talking about. So I went inside and went into bed.
The next day my parents and I went out to have a look at the family car.
It was still parked nicely in the driveway.
Stretching all the way from the front panel to the back end, and encompassing both doors on the passenger side, was a two-foot-high dent that looked like Godzilla had run a claw across it.
“Wow,” I said, genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t think I hit anything.”
My parents were not genuinely surprised.
I could have killed her, I thought.
Flash forward to 1986 when, after leaving my biker life, I moved into my parents’ basement.
“Can I go out?” I asked one night.
“Sure,” said my dad. “You can take the bus.”
By 1986, we all knew what I was.